"appended" poems
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The soup today is not what it could be;
We’d better search out the old recipe
Explanatory Note:
I fear the poem as written fails, which is my fault (perhaps I have lapsed into fuzziness from reading Leonard Cohen), so here is a bit of exposition:
The words in small print are a quote from the Bishops of Texas (long may they wave), generated by some in-house scrivener, about what constitutes a "credible accusation." "Credible accusation" is not a title in civil, criminal, or canon law, and it appears to be some sort of Article 58 (cf. Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago), a means whereby anyone is guilty because he has been accused. It stinks.
Also stinky is the behavior of some few priests and religious.
Anyway, I pulled the quote from a diocesan web site, and scattered among it in LARGE TYPE categories from that site. I stirred 'em all up in a soup because the matter of paedophilia and the bishops' responses seem to be a soup, making it difficult for a "good simpleton" (cf A Canticle for Leibowitz) like me to understand.
May God have mercy on us all.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC
dear bill,
so sweet of you
to leave behind
a paper jot
for me to find
for ev’ry breakfast
lunch and tea
gone missing since
you married me;
- however -
such wilfulness
I do condemn
each crust and crumb,
each stone and stem,
each potluck plum
purloined at night
to satisfy
your appetite;
this doctor’s wife
has had her fill
of poetry
and bitter pills,
and crumpled drafts
in juicy scrawl
appended to
the icebox door;
your words do not
a meal make
how many more
must I forsake
- meals, that is -
before your page
is fit for press
and I can sup
on more…not less
love, floss
ps dinner’s in the oven, probably
Mar 16, 2022
Mar 16, 2022 at 6:09 PM UTC
pick your master under the cover of snow
bends of darkness hemmed to the tops of conifers
Soon I will visit to move you. Three appended signatures,
Three thousand miles of telephone wire.
This is the one letter I cannot send
for there is no address for where you are,
The one I wish to call upon has no receiver to respond.
And now all my teeth begin to fall out
Like excess light bleeding from your moons.
I know the sound of Glass when I hear it.
You have made weapons out of my junk and
Then gone to war without me, I see you
Against the whistling stars and overseers,
Anxiety makes this heart grow fungus
These fingertips weary, and I pull out my eyelashes
As if trying to see you better through this impenetrable
black nightness I lead myself into, until all that
were corners and crests become the precipice.
Insecurity turns to rooks, hatred turns to Jays
Until the weeping have wept and I visit to stay.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
Sky Afire
It started as a tendril snaked
And quickly caught my eye
That beckoned me to come partake
The bright majestic sky
From turquoise into indigo
And all the shades between
With molten lava spreading slow
As far as could be seen
With orange and corals juxtaposed
Against the deeper blues
And silhouetted trees in pose
Amid the great bamboos
The clouds were piled in tumbling flow
And darkened as they fell
To charcoal black, blood red aglow
At meeting with the swell
And as the skyflow met the sea
And seemed to melt within
The sea took on its vibrancy
And flow began again
And as the skyflood reached its peak
Engulfing and aflame
It seemed directly to retreat
As quickly as it came
The ashen grey began above
And slowly spread below
Till all was left in pumice drifts
Within its final glow
And now the show has ended
With the sky once more a sky
And the clouds and sea appended
For a witness such as I
3 Oct 2000
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
Considering me a talented, aspiring shill
My muse loaned me a feathery quill
Brokering her wisdom, leasing her skill
With embroidered frills each barb with beauty did distill
Lithographer's vision, a graceful dividend to reveal
Depreciating vane my artistic license to bill
Hollow shaft gilded so her availing light could the vacuum fill
Inky reservoir with inspiration did instill
A deep well with literary devices did rill
Ideas streaming from strained cavity to the mind's tip with zeal
Burnished hues, sharp tones aesthetic notions to congeal
A precision valve appended vagaries to swill
An automated inkblot defibrillating patterns to spill
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 11:28 AM UTC
Appended streams exhume the dreams that surface in conscious guide,
As photon beams augment the seams transmitters must abide.
The quantum strings of knotted ties,
Entangling's of worlds collide,
A vortex of spiraled rings,
In scattered sets convergent glide,
The convex spacial vacuuming's, synaptic points electrified,
A hex, insatiable, stochastically adjoins frequencies over-amplified, as complex oracle valuations weight choices to decide.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 7:19 AM UTC
Considering me a talented, aspiring shill
My muse loaned me a feathery quill
Brokering her wisdom, leasing her skill
With embroidered frills each barb with beauty did distill
Lithographer's vision, a graceful dividend to reveal
Depreciating vane my artistic license to bill
Hollow shaft gilded so her availing light can the vacuum fill
Inky reservoir with inspiration did instill
A deep well with literary devices did rill
Ideas streaming from strained cavity to the mind's tip with zeal
Burnished hues, sharp tones aesthetic notions to congeal
A precision valve appended vagaries to swill
An automated inkblot defibrillating patterns to spill
Aug 9, 2011
Aug 9, 2011 at 5:20 PM UTC
The first attempt ended in nothingness. Ribbons flowed from the belly of mother hollow, and though they grasped at their own absence, their fingers broke like brittle leaves, returning to the mother’s flesh.
This was the birth of change.
The second attempt ended in madness. Shadows rose out of the nothingness in waves and cascaded into pools of being, but when being opened its eyes and saw its image, it let out a threshing scream.
This was the birth of separation.
The third attempt ended in lack. Fire poured from the cosmic maw and baked earth to blood; flesh gorged on itself, and pale figures gripped the edges of rivers, gaping at one another, unable to speak.
This was the birth of despair.
The last attempt ended in man; and nothing birthed after it.
Appended File
Source states the archaeologist was investigating the Mariana Trench. Strangely, he began displaying symptoms of decompression sickness on the descent. His state worsened, but, due to his insistence, the pilot continued the mission. The archaeologist began recounting, in “muddled and broken speech”, accounts of his wife and children. In interviews conducted after the incident, colleagues claim to have never met any persons matching such descriptions. Soon after, the archaeologist collapsed. The pilot recounts, in a shaken tone, “By all means he was out. Like—I called to him, you know.” When asked why he did not administer first aid, the pilot replied “I couldn’t st—he was out cold, I ******* swear. I didn’t notice it at first, moving my hand over his face, you know—staring into space. I grabbed the kit, turned back, and that’s when it hit me. His eyes weren’t glazed, they were fixed on me. Tracking me. Like—those weren’t his eyes, anymore.” When asked to expand on this, the pilot broke down and had to be escorted from the room. The archaeologist has yet to awaken from his coma. It should be noted his eyes are closed.
— 37, Male. Cairo, Egypt.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC
I see the cover of the book of you my friend
with its catchy graphics
and beckoning fonts and title,
but how could I truly know the pages
of the stories that speak inside?
If the unique and essential you
were bound into a book,
I might scan the index,
or watch a Talk Show interview.
I could pull a bio off the shelf,
and trace the paths from who you were
to who you might become
sipping tea in my bentwood rocker
and who knows,
you might do the same for me.
My curiosity is keen my friend,
because our chapters are interwoven.
The air we breathe and our chosen paths
have sewn our lives together.
The common ground we walk
is crisscrossed by our footprints.
If I blink for just an instant
I notice that new pages have been
appended to your book.
Even the cover has changed
and so it is with mine.
So I own without regret or sorrow that
I can never know the book of you (or me)
whose infinite shelves of once-told stories
await some distant final chapter.
September, 2013
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
When your Name
was appended to mine,
My parents said-
“It’s for your security.”
Blinded by my Veil;
I couldn’t see-
It was a false promise.
In your embrace, I wanted to thrive,
to flourish, to live.
But I was pushed aside-
A bud that died,
Not blossoming
Into a flower.
When I asked for Freedom,
you gave me Abandonment.
When I asked for a Voice
to express myself-
you gave me Screams of Anguish.
When I asked to be Loved;
you gave me Pain.
I lie here now,
A discarded rag
Without an identity.
Keeping me company
are the scars on my arms-
Scars- a gift of
your undying love for me?
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 5:43 AM UTC
soapbox man has
measured the moments
in the the small wood floor room
she dose a wet step soft shoe little hip swing dance
to music only she and god can hear
and to her soapbox man is god
as she slides slowly thru the dense air of his self contained contentions
in the the small wood floor room
its freedom to her
soapbox man has come and she is here
to get her fix
of his brand of guns to subjugate the dead
and iron fist rusting in a vacant lot brand of rule
its freedom to her
echoes down the bridge road between realitys
a woman laughing in slow motion
the tread of boots on marble
oddly distorted pieces of conversation
that are appended to soapbox heroes
who preach
that those not with us are against us
and should be punished for their cruel foolishness
this is not heaven
its a place that wears the face of grace on earth
it wears the mask of memories warm and kind
its peace and freedom to her
its a lie
this is the nature of the human beast
what reality we dream is pleasing
no matter how toxic
in the the small wood floor room
she dose a wet step soft shoe little hip swing dance
to music only she and god can hear
and as time passes
and it eats from within
she falls to the floor
and crumbles to dust
a fragment of humanity
on a pergo floor
and its freedom to her
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC
Upon an island fair and green
Where not a face of white was seen
There lived a tribe of Chami-Tu
Whose numbers counted only few
Idyllic life of love and peace
But all of this was soon to cease.
Upon the Raven out at sea
An English Captain name of Mee
Appended telescope to eye
And watched as nothing drifted by
Till suddenly it came in view
The Island of the Chami-Tu.
So Captain Mee he gave a cry
Avast the craft there’s land ahoy
About the Raven swung her helm
Another one to join the realm
Swift and sharp it cut through waves
Intent to capture many slaves.
The Chami-Tu still unaware
So therefore failing to prepare
For never had they ever seen
The fighting forces of the Queen
Without a fight they all were found
Their hands and feet were tightly bound.
They never before had seen a white
Imagine do, their fear and fright
To Captain Mee this was routine
His crew were hard men, cruel and mean
They whipped each one the Chami-Tu
Just for the want of things to do.
And then they stowed them in the hold
Where all was damp and dark and cold
For many weeks they sailed the sea
Just for the love of Captain Mee
Who took them to a foreign shore
To join the likes of many more
And work in fields of sugar cane
Where all were treated with disdain.
Language changed they would not speak
Were brought a God they did not seek
Their world was different from ours
But we had Gods in Ivory Towers.
What was their crime? They never knew
They’d lived in peace the Chami-Tu
Upon their Island in the sea
Where none had heard of Captain Mee
And none had ever heard of hate
No human being deserved their fate.
Dec 19, 2009
Dec 19, 2009 at 9:26 AM UTC
soapbox man has
measured the moments
in the the small wood floor room
she dose a wet step soft shoe little hip swing dance
to music only she and god can hear
and to her soapbox man is god
as she slides slowly thru the dense air of his self contained contentions
in the the small wood floor room
its freedom to her
soapbox man has come and she is here
to get her fix
of his brand of guns to subjugate the dead
and iron fist rusting in a vacant lot brand of rule
its freedom to her
echoes down the bridge road between realitys
a woman laughing in slow motion
the tread of boots on marble
oddly distorted pieces of conversation
that are appended to soapbox heroes
who preach
that those not with us are against us
and should be punished for their cruel foolishness
this is not heaven
its a place that wears the face of grace on earth
it wears the mask of memories warm and kind
its peace and freedom to her
its a lie
this is the nature of the human beast
what reality we dream is pleasing
no matter how toxic
in the the small wood floor room
she dose a wet step soft shoe little hip swing dance
to music only she and god can hear
and as time passes
and it eats from within
she falls to the floor
and crumbles to dust
a fragment of humanity
on a pergo floor
and its freedom to her
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
When you look, what is it that you see? I don't think you see what I do, yet you might try and tell me that it is so, but the way you read the signs is so blind to the splendor, the extravagance of what is there. I find no evidence you see what I see. Soon my luminous world grows dark as the shadows of yours seek to ground what should be in flight, make cynical of all potential light. Why must the world be cast into black and white when there is so much color?
You think it safe to bind yourself within the safety of your rules,
afraid to venture out,
step outside the here and now,
outside this room, this building, this city, this country.
Within this world erase the boundaries, erase the lines,
and realize what lives sure enough dies. That's what makes it so beautiful, aporia In attoraxic duress, we are merely consciousness, outside the blood and the flesh, outside the vessel. For the universe needed something, so now, I observe it, someone had to take notice. Thus, it was given to us to take it and shape it, make it the wonderful place in which we think we can only imagine. Imagine how if we tried to see the potential, the possibilities, released the hate, the anger, the cynicism. We limit ourselves but I don't want to feel the constraints anymore, I'm ready to be, I'm ready to exist, to flourish, to find beauty in simplicity, to imagine, to create, to wonder, to let go of the urge to know and to embrace the infinite possibilities.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 3:27 PM UTC
the face of yours the life appended a little sign
is like a cinema you touched on my forehead
a cold soda between the two acts
the lyric voice of the gong ringing hourly
the falling shadows of the buckthorn trees
a sky broken on a day of wind
form my frames of the sparrows left from the summer
the face of yours the life appended a little sign
is the alley of a district where the time is stopped
it is the ant, belonging to there, we meet
while touching the pebbles with our toes
who knows when, where, instantly
we had smelt a rain they dropped inside us
the face of yours the life appended a little sign
is the riverside, when I propped my mouth
the crotch wet I steal, form the times when there are no male
something which is garnet, a volcano
on the booms of which daisy, lily and some lime are piled
like cevdet anday says
“mountings are aside, we are aside”
Koray Feyiz
(Translated from Turkish by Koray Feyiz)
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 5:51 PM UTC
We pretend to apprehend
Appended prosthetic desire
When in truth we don't
Deign to even comprehend
What persuasion may conspire
Arrested reasonings contend
So whatever the difference may be
You are the subtrahend to my minuend
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 4:16 AM UTC
Kaleidoscopic Whorled Wide Web.
Against light source well crafted
tubular structure appended with eyepiece gazing
offers viewer eye-opening, mind boggling
instantaneously birthing then vanishing
resplendent myriad colorful geometric
awesome shifting shapes hypnotizing
sight seer into a whirling ******
where multifaceted fractals display pin-wheeling
arithmetically perfect triangulate squarely
with proportionate arcs astounding
with blind faith on microscopic scale
analogous to cosmic big bang spell-binding
mankind from time immemorial when
her/his gaze turned heavenward peering
into the azure vault – one macrocosmic
hint per the origin from when on-looking
proto-humans ruminated inscrutably
enamored at the spectacular eminence grise
forever holding mystery of
universe evolution in shrouded secret
continually mystifying one generation
after another until twenty first century astro-physicists
begin unravel evolutionary tale
writ small on planet earth yet storied tome
pried open from scientific revolutions
enabling birth of cosmos honed with more
fine tuned precision to zero in
on precise second whence explosion filled void
with nebulous material coalescing
into rudimentary galactic masses generating
vast surfeit of globular structures evincing
conically swirling
millennially futuristic clear cut entities
upon which one – namely gaia
finds this sole member **** sapiens
reveling in his makeshift primitive contrivance
teasing ocular sense with visual *******
begetting thought provoking questions
into this eternal wonderment
that perchance some intelligent deity
willfully rotates planet like some plaything
synonymous with mere mortal peering
into magic of kaleidoscope!
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 2:29 PM UTC
हर्फ़-ए-लिबास पिरोये,
एक ख़्वाहिश-ए-ख़िताब लिखूँ...
रूह-ए-स्याह बिखरे जो,
तो तुम्हे नूर-ए-आफ़ताब लिखूँ...
#thought
May 23, 2024
May 23, 2024 at 3:27 PM UTC